Chapter 1 – A casualty of warThe
oppressive sound of heavy ordnance from the German side crashing
into the allied lines at Ypres had become a background to their
existence for days, now. Each salvo – indistinguishable from the
previous one, or the next – brought with it the danger of instant
death, or perhaps even worse, maiming, to every man on the
line.Hunched
uncomfortably over a makeshift desk in the wood-and-mud lined
foxhole laughingly referred to as his ‘office’ in the forward
trenches, the tall young man with grey eyes and brown hair
shivered. It was cold – very cold – on that early morning of 22nd
April 1915 and wet; the drizzle outside not helped by the fact he
was sitting under several feet of sodden, worm-infested earth. It
seemed worse during the darkest part of the night, just before
first light heralded the start of another day of pure hell on the
front line. A furrowed brow suddenly marred his handsome, not-quite
symmetrical face as a rat the size of a rabbit nudged his right
foot; they seemed so fearless they would climb over one whether he
was awake or asleep.Lieutenant
Edgar Smythe was sitting alone, re-reading the letter he had
written to his sister before consigning it to the somewhat erratic
military postal system. There was seldom much of substance to say –
at least, not which would escape the censor’s blue pencil. But he
and Agatha – twenty months his junior – had shared everything, even
their innermost thoughts, in a childhood blighted by the death of
their parents. The loss had forced them closer together than was
usual for siblings of their class and generation. Edgar always felt
the need to communicate with her – to maintain at least some sort
of contact; it kept him sane in a world gone mad. Even if she never
received them, writing the letters was his anchor in the turbulent
waters of this damned place.Conditions
were even worse for the men, he knew. In the slit trenches,
infestations of frogs competed with red slugs and strange-looking
beetles to climb up the mud embankments to get dry; and out of the
mouths of those voracious rats. All this misery was compounded by
the incessant noise of the German guns pounding their lines –
shells undoubtedly going the other way too.Grandmamma
Williams had been a kindly enough woman, in taking them in as
children. They had lived a comfortable life. But given her
Victorian upbringing – she was born the same year the current
king’s grandmother had ascended the throne – her attitudes were
naturally rather more severe towards the children than had been
that of their own, more liberal, parents. Edgar and Agatha had
enjoyed far too little time with Mother and Father before they had
succumbed to one of the many illnesses which pervaded India. Father
– outwardly severe, yet actually generous and gentle – had been a
senior civil servant, but that had not saved him or mamma from
cholera. Fortunately, Edgar had been at school in England at the
time, and Agatha was sufficiently young – or perhaps protected by
her amah, Lajita – to have escaped unscathed. A pretty fair-haired
child, she had been brought back to England by the nursemaid
shortly afterwards. Despite the rigours of the journey from India –
and the intense cold she suffered on arriving at the family home in
London – Lajita had stayed to look after her ever since, as well as
supervising Edgar whenever he was at home. Her presence had
provided a bulwark against the strictures of late Victorian family
life. Now just over 20, Agatha no longer needed her ministrations;
but Lajita represented a welcome link with the past for them both,
so the former Amah somehow never seemed to move on – hoping,
perhaps that one of her former charges might soon provide another
generation for her to care for.There
had been none of the traditional separation of boys and girls in
Lajita’s domain, although whenever Grandmamma Williams was about,
the usual proprieties were observed. As a result, the children had
grown up remarkably close; particularly since on Agatha’s return,
Edgar had been taken away from his boarding school to study as a
day-boy at the City of London School, near where they lived. Agatha
was, of course, tutored at home, but Grandmamma was sufficiently
wise to recognise that parentless children needed each other’s
support more than merely a formal education. Anyway, they were
bright children and would do well whatever happened. There would be
plenty of money to find a good husband for Agatha as well as to
secure Edgar’s future in his chosen career. War came just as Edgar
had finished university. August 1914 was a wake-up call to the
whole of Europe and Edgar had joined up alongside most of his
fellow graduates, as well as many of the current students, entering
the army without hesitation. As a former member of the Officers’
Training Corps, he had been commissioned immediately; probably too
quickly to learn about leading men, he sometimes worried. Yet the
sappers under his command seemed to respect him. Or was that the
benign influence of Sergeant Price, he wondered? Had he but known,
it was his engineering knowledge and innate kindness which made him
popular.Now
Edgar was sitting in the trenches facing the Germans, leading a
small company of Welsh combat engineers. They had been sent to
support the Canadians who were guarding the French flank, initially
responsible for maintaining the trench system in their sector. But
recently, the company had been dragged into combat positions to
supplement the depleted front-line troops. Edgar tired of rereading
his letter and put it in an envelope ready for later collection. He
had long ago devoured the latest issue of the Wipers Times, sent
across by his old commander, Major Falconer, from the main British
lines. He was cold, he was wet through and – had anyone cared to
notice – he smelled unpleasantly of mud and worse. But it was the
boredom that really got to him. There was a limit to the number of
times he could check on his men to ensure the posts were properly
manned; and that those currently resting were as prepared for
whatever might come as they could be. There were rumours of an
impending German offensive. To be sure, the relentless bombardment
seemed to have been heavier than usual recently so anything was
possible. Edgar had lost track of time, only his reliable army
watch telling him whether it was in the day or night.Climbing
out of his fox-hole into the main trench, Edgar saw his men were on
station, the sergeant walking carefully along the rough wooden
boards in a vain effort to avoid the detritus; keeping his charges
up to the mark. The young lieutenant risked a peek over the wooden
parapet – not too long, or you were inviting a sniper’s bullet. The
dark night was giving way to a swirling mist over no-man’s-land,
making it difficult to discern individual features. Not that there
were many to see. The ground was churned up by shell-holes and the
marks of men running across the mud; no trees, or even bushes,
remained standing. Edgar stood wondering what the countryside had
looked like before man’s hubris had turned it into an uninviting
mess.It took
the slightly crouching lieutenant some minutes to realise the sound
of bombardment, which had rained down on them for so long, was
suddenly missing. The silence was almost as deafening as the shells
had been. He turned and looked at his sergeant, wondering if he too
had noticed. Catching the expression in the older man’s eyes, he
realised ‘Ginger’ Price certainly had. At the same moment, a
whistle blew from further along the line and the dreaded words
“Gaz, Gaz, Gaz” rang out across the French front trenches.
Instantly, Edgar flew into action. He had not specifically been
expecting something of this nature, but his training – and natural
concern for his men – told him what to do.“Sergeant
Price,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “Order the men to put
damp rags over their faces, grab their guns and get onto the
duckboards immediately. The Hun must be on his way.” As his orders
were replicated along the line – and immediately obeyed by hundreds
of men who knew they were just about to come under attack even
worse than the softening-up barrage which had been going on for
days – everything went suddenly quiet again, men too busy covering
their faces for chatter. They could not see the tell-tale yellow
colour of gas wafting across from the German side, but knew it must
be there.“The
bastards are probably close now, sir” reported Price, straining his
eyes to see what was happening, a rather odoriferous wet rag over
his mouth and nose. A battle-hardened former miner from the Rhonda
Valley, Ginger had enlisted to get away from the pits – only to
find himself now living in an interlocking set of trenches,
underground passages and rooms similar in every particular to those
he had himself had to construct half a year earlier on another part
of the line. Now he was responsible for maintaining these trenches,
under Edgar’s supervision, because the Canadians had no relevant
expertise. Not that Edgar had any experience of mining either, of
course; but unlike most officers, he had at least read engineering
at university, so he had some knowledge of the challenges they
faced. “They will have stopped the barrage so as not to hit their
own men. But surely they will wait until after the gas has passed
over our line,” he said.“You
would think so, wouldn’t you, Ginger?” replied the officer. “But
you never know with the Germans, they might want to surprise us
under its cover. Keep your eyes peeled, I’m going to visit the men
and make sure they are ready. You stay here in case we receive any
orders.” Edgar made his way to the extreme end of the Canadian
line, where they abutted the French soldiers. Speaking to the
lieutenant in command, he was told the Germans had released
chlorine gas from their own trenches, intending that it should
drift across the allied lines and cause maximum damage. The Second
Battle of Ypres had started.
*Within
ten minutes, thousands of French, Moroccan and Algerian troops lay
dead and dying in their trenches without a single shot having been
fired – killed by inhaling the toxic gas which showed no respect
for rank or culpability. Unbeknownst to the allies, almost as many
Germans were also dead from the way the gas was handled by them.
Far from holding back, the attacking troops had started moving
forwards immediately behind the gas. It was unclear whether this
was a deliberate order based on an erroneous conviction their
troops were somehow protected from its effects; or the deliberate
sacrifice of troops to confuse the defenders; or simply the result
of there being no orders for them to stand firm and let the deadly
chemical do its worst. Whatever the reason, the impact on the
Germans was as severe as on the French division and their
supporters; soldiers on both sides were wheezing out their last
breaths in exactly the same way – or lying dead before having had
the chance to prove their worth in battle.Waste of
lives.Finally,
the German advance began in earnest and what remained of the French
and Canadian forces could start fighting back. The battle was hard
and unremitting, with horrendous casualties – both in terms of
severity and sheer scope – on both sides. Hand-to-hand fighting
brought out the best – and the worst – amongst those who had
managed to avoid the gas attack, many by urinating on rags to
create a primitive gas mask. But the onslaught proved too much for
the allies. By the end of the afternoon, there was a gaping hole in
the defensive line. Gasping slightly from the pervasive odour of
the gas which was impossible to clear from his nostrils, Edgar
looked out over the quietening battlefield. Their ammunition all
but exhausted, his men were tired; but there was no longer any
significant activity from the German side. It was possible for the
allies to stand firm; unaware a lack of reserves had prevented the
enemy from capitalising on its breakthrough.Greater
waste of lives.

Edgar
reported to the Canadian major in command of the area as night fell
at the end of a long and exhausting day. He was an experienced
officer, perhaps ten or twelve years Edgar’s senior. He and his men
had served of the front line for many months, occasionally being
rotated back for a period of rest.“Lieutenant
Smythe,” he smiled warmly, his slightly accented English a result
of living in the French-speaking province of Quebec. Edgar had met
him several times during the last months and found him to be a fair
and friendly officer. “Good to see you survived this mess. How many
men have you?”“About
twenty-five, Major Gauthier,” he replied to the tall
salt-and-pepper haired Canadian – premature greying brought on, no
doubt, by all he had endured at the front. Edgar’s prompt action in
ordering his men to improvise protection against the gas had saved
many of them, although they had not really been positioned to
encounter the bulk of the onslaught; they were, after all,
primarily a support unit. “I only lost a couple of men, so we are
in reasonably good order, but short of ammunition.”“We can
lend you some; we were better provisioned than you,” replied the
senior officer. His face was serious, hinting that what he was
about to say would involve danger. “I have a task for you. We have
been ordered to mount a counter-attack tonight – Kitchener’s Wood –
and I will need your assistance. Get your men ready; no need to
worry about your positions in the trenches, they are irrelevant at
the moment. We are to try and plug the gap in our lines created by
today’s assault.”
*By 23:00
hours, Edgar and his platoon were nervously positioned towards the
rear of some 800 men as they started walking slowly from the
moonlit fields into the pitch-black woods. Edgar recognised with
gratitude that they were not closer to the front because they
lacked battle experience. Without reconnaissance this assault was
highly risky; but the senior commanders had felt there was little
option but to take action to make good at least some of the day’s
losses. Whatever the cost. As the front rank of infantry
disappeared from his sight into the woods, Edgar could hear they
had encountered stiff resistance; hand-to-hand fighting swiftly
ensued; firing at close quarters creating carnage on both
sides.“Ginger,”
Edgar said quietly to his sergeant, as he peered through the
darkness, straining to see the melee ahead of them. “The Germans
are putting up strong resistance. The Canadians make easy targets
for them because of the muzzle flashes from their guns. Let’s try
something different; a little Rhondda cold-steel, perhaps?” The
sergeant smiled grimly. He knew how risky a bayonet attack would
be, but it might be safer than firing blindly into the German lines
and giving away their positions. Aim a foot higher than the last
muzzle flash and slightly to the right, and you had a good chance
of hitting someone. Provided they were right-handed, of
course.“Bayonets
on, men; pass it on,” Sergeant Price ordered quietly into the
blackness, so as not to give away their positions – or their plan.
“And don’t forget your training: lunge, twist, withdraw, and move
on. No time to look at your handiwork, or it will be the last thing
you ever see. Now, no talking.” His steady influence was calming to
the men who were more accustomed to a bar fight on Saturday night,
than trying to kill people.They
moved tentatively towards the fighting, keeping slightly to one
side so as not to become caught in the crossfire, which was erratic
at best. They were able to identify German soldiers by the
direction of the flashes from their guns; it would be time enough
when they drew to close quarters to ensure from the colour of their
uniforms that they really were enemies and not Canadians firing in
the wrong direction. Going in so closely, they risked being shot at
by their allies, but there was nothing to be gained by holding
back; there was a job to be done and they did it with all the
courage you would expect of men from the valleys. Two or three of
the men dropped silently to the ground, bravely suppressing their
cries of pain and despair as they were struck by stray bullets from
the battle in front of them. Their comrades strode on past them,
marking the place they fell in the hope of returning later to help
them. Now was not the time. Gradually, they started to see results
as the Canadians realised what they were doing and copied the
technique, only firing when absolutely necessary and thus becoming
less ‘visible’ to the Germans in the darkness, now unrelieved by
the moon.Edgar’s
group was gradually depleted during the action; one man was shot at
close range by an enemy corporal, his face disappearing in a mulch
of blood and brains, another fell to a German private, just as he
bayoneted the man in revenge for his friend’s killing. Several more
must also have been shot at some point, their bodies only being
found later. At one stage, the lieutenant and Ginger Price became
involved in some extremely vicious hand-to-hand fighting; guns
blazing at close quarters and bayonets becoming increasingly
bloodied. Ginger had run forwards to help three of the platoon who
were in danger of being surrounded by a hostile group, firing his
rifle as well as lunging with his bayonet. Discretion was
important, but not as much as keeping his men safe. His brave solo
effort was not quite enough to redress the odds and Edgar quickly
recognised his sergeant was getting into difficulties. Armed only
with his officer’s pistol, he grabbed a rifle from one of the
fallen Germans which was, by now, fitted with a bayonet like the
British weapons. Running forwards to support his sergeant, he
lunged at Ginger’s attacker in time to save him from becoming
embroiled in a hopeless situation; his additional momentum helping
change the balance of this small melee within the greater battle.
Just as they seemed to be winning this side skirmish, a German
officer shot blindly into a rugby scrum of soldiers from both
sides, apparently hoping to stem the apparent reversal. His
un-aimed bullet found its mark, shattering the radius of Edgar’s
left arm. At first, the young lieutenant was unaware of the injury,
knowing only that his arm had somehow been forced backwards and
would no longer function. Dropping the rifle from his now useless
arm, he grabbed his pistol from the holster hanging at his left hip
with his still-functioning right hand, and looked round to identify
his attacker. Ginger Price, ever aware of his officer, had already
put a bullet in the German officer’s head from short range.
Avoiding firing to conceal his position was no longer an issue. He
moved quickly to Edgar’s side.“You
alright, sir?” he asked, looking at the limp arm.“Yes,
I’ll be ok. Thanks for getting the bastard, Ginger,” the officer
replied. The wound was not yet hurting; but he knew it would
soon.The
engagement lasted less than two hours; yet to those involved, the
fierce fighting seemed both interminably long, and unbelievably
brief. Eventually, the woods were cleared; but at the cost of more
than half the total allied force. The Germans had been routed and
it only remained to check for casualties – and any Germans who
might be playing possum, to avoid capture.Edgar
and his men, by then reduced to fifteen or so souls – the number of
survivors a miracle, given the intensity of the fighting – helped
to look over the bodies. Ginger leant over to check a German NCO’s
body. As he did so, he noticed a small canister underneath the
man’s uniform jacket, slowly leaking a thick yellow vapour. A
bayonet thrust must have pierced a chlorine gas container the man
had been carrying; it couldn’t have been a bullet or it would have
exploded. Ginger immediately started coughing, bringing Edgar over
to see what was wrong. Ginger turned towards him, violently pushing
his officer away before collapsing on the ground, dying from the
poison. Edgar had inhaled some of the gas before the sergeant’s
action put him out of harm’s way. He also fell to the ground almost
unable to breathe. Totally unaware of his surroundings within
seconds, his eyes misted over in a pale imitation of the yellow of
the gas. So this is what it was like to die, Edgar
thought.Another
wasted life: sorry, Agatha, you’re on your own now.
*German
intelligence message discovered in 1919:From:
RaptorTo:
German IntelligenceDated:
23-4-15Subject:
Attack on YpresMessage:
Attack failed due to several factors.1.
Location was correctly identified by me as a weak point in the
defences, guarded by a mixture of nationalities including Welsh
engineers with no battle experience. However, initial use of gas
was followed up too quickly by German troops, who themselves became
incapacitated by it.2.
Your lines were apparently overstretched by the rapidity of their
initial progress.3.
Counter attack by French and Canadian forces late at night was
effective because of changed tactics. The use of bayonets
apparently initiated by Welsh Engineers in an attempt not to give
their positions away.Will
report again, when it is safe for me to do so without revealing my
position.*“You’ve
had a fortunate escape, lieutenant” said the harsh, clipped tones
of a British doctor in the black void somewhere above Edgar’s head.
He must be alive after all. “You were brought in by a Canadian
major, who said you had been involved in a special operation
overnight. Frankly, you are lucky to be alive. The chlorine gas
affected your lungs, I am afraid, and your eyesight may never
return,” he said, with a total lack of compassion or bedside
manner. Perhaps he thought brutality was the kindest way of
communicating such unbearable news. “It’s back to England for you,
as soon as your breathing has stabilised. Your left arm will not be
much use to you in future, either. I’m afraid the war is over for
you, young man,” he said slightly more considerately. “A pity. I
understand you led your men with great valour. We need more men
like you.”Edgar
attempted to speak but was unable to do so; sounds refusing to form
themselves in this throat. The doctor had apparently moved on to
the next patient, his patrician voice sounding further away,
because the next voice he registered was that of a young
woman.“Please
don’t try to speak, lieutenant, you won’t be able to,” said the
gentle tones which he assumed must belong to a nurse. “My name is
Mary Gosling; I’ll be looking after you for a few days. I’m going
to give you something to drink in a little while. It might hurt
your throat because of the effects of the gas you inhaled; but you
must have some liquid inside you.”She
returned after an indeterminate interval during which Edgar drifted
into and out of sleep, the morphine preventing the pain in his arm
from keeping him awake. He was roused by her presence at his
bedside, as a surprisingly strong arm beneath his back gently
lifted him forwards and she placed a cup of lukewarm liquid to his
lips. Coughing at the assault on his damaged throat, Edgar idly
wondered what sort of woman she was that she could lift him so
easily; must have muscles like a weightlifter – and no doubt a
moustache to match – he managed to joke to himself. Yet he was
sufficiently aware to feel the subtle pressure of her firm breast
against him as she guided the cup towards his mouth and realised
that she must be quite slender. The tenderness of the young nurse –
she had a youthful voice, anyway – made him think of his sister,
who would never receive his last letter. It must have been lost; he
had left it in his trench office when the fighting started and
hadn’t had the opportunity to look for it afterwards. And then, of
course, there had been the battle in the woods. Would he ever be
able to write again? The thought of Agatha – or possibly the pain
in his throat – made him gag on the warm drink and the nurse made a
few soothing noises and withdrew the cup. He shook his head and
opened his mouth to indicate that she should give him
more.“There’s
a good boy,” she said kindly, ignoring his rank as she did with
everyone, including the doctors (well, except Matron; nobody
ignored her status). “A little more will make you feel better.” It
did, as its warmth – and the morphine – lulled him back to
sleep.

During
the next few days, the passing of which he could only estimate by
the increasingly solid meals he was given by the patient Nurse Mary
Gosling and her colleagues – few of them had her tenderness, so he
could tell the difference – Edgar felt his breathing easing and his
voice starting to return. The doctor told him that he was lucky;
most people who had inhaled chlorine either died or suffered from
chronic lung conditions.“Frankly,”
the doctor had told him, “were it not for the swift action of your
sergeant in pushing you away, and the major who had brought you in,
you might not be here at all. I was able to get some oxygen into
your lungs and that seems to have flushed out the chlorine quite
effectively. Even so, you have been remarkably lucky. Your eyesight
is a different matter. I’m afraid that there is nothing I can do
here. The gas has clearly damaged your optic nerves, although I do
not fully understand how, so no prognosis is possible. I would like
to get you back to England as soon as possible, although it’s
unlikely to be for a week or so, because those with life
threatening injuries have to take precedence. There’s a specialist
eye centre in Folkestone, close to where you will be landing and
they will see what they can do. But in the meantime, please make no
effort to remove your bandages; just follow all medical
instructions. We have set your arm as best we could, but you will
have to be careful with it. The muscles were badly damaged by the
bullet, so you are unlikely to recover its full use.” This was the
most he had heard the doctor say in one consultation. Perhaps his
loquacity was an indication that Edgar was effectively being
written off as a patient – and as a soldier.He had
left before Edgar even realised it and was able to say something to
the doctor in gratitude for his attention – and that of his
colleagues. Deep in thought, lying back on his bed, he wondered
what the future would hold for him now, unable to see his
engineering drawings – or anything else. Money was not an issue –
never had been. But he could hardly sit around doing nothing for
the next fifty or sixty years. Nurse Gosling found him in what
appeared to be either state of light sleep – or some darker place
of his own. Not surprising, she told herself, given what he must be
feeling. She wondered if he understood how bad his injuries were.
Such a shame; he seemed a nice young man.“Is
there someone I can contact on your behalf,” she said tentatively,
not knowing whether he would hear, or would want to reply if he
did. “A wife or sweetheart?” she added, hoping not. He was a
handsome man, as she had seen when his facial bandages were removed
for changing; but perhaps not a good prospect as a husband now,
given his disabilities.Rousing
himself from his black reverie, Edgar replied.“Only my
sister, Agatha,” he replied, unable to see the smile which suddenly
spread attractively across her pretty face. “She is a little
younger than me, but we grew up together. I ought to let her know
I’m alright. I was due to write to her anyway; she will become
worried if she doesn’t get a letter soon,” he added, thinking again
of the one which had been lost.“Would
you like me to write for you?” offered the nurse. “I am at the end
of my shift now, so sister won’t mind.” Edgar thanked her and she
went off to get writing implements.

Dear
Agatha, (he dictated)Please
do not be alarmed that this letter is not in my handwriting. I am
perfectly safe, and away from the fighting. I’m afraid that my
sergeant, about whom I have previously written, didn’t make it; he
saved me from very severe injury even though he was already dying.
A French-Canadian major brought me to hospital, where a nurse is
kindly writing this for me.I cannot
tell you any of the details of how I was injured, of course, but it
was a rather bloody action – in every sense of the word – and I am
not sure whether we won or lost this round. Soldiers seldom have
any knowledge of the overall picture, of course – which is probably
as much as I am allowed to say.My
injuries are not life-threatening, but neither will it be possible
for me to return to the front. They are talking about sending me
back to England – Folkestone, which is where we all embarked for
France – to recuperate. There are a few issues they need to
resolve, (no need to mention my eyesight, nurse) but I am expected
to make a decent recovery.Perhaps
you might come down to visit me as soon as you are able. Have you
managed to join the VAD as you wanted to, or is Grandmamma
insisting that you limit your activities to fundraising with the
Red Cross and St. John’s? Whatever you do, I am sure we will be
together again soon.You are
always in my thoughts,Your
loving brother,

“Can you
give me your pen so that I can sign my name, please, Miss Gosling,”
he said, using her name, rather than occupation, to make the
experience more personal than professional. “Just put it in my hand
and guide me to the right place. Thank you,” he added, as she did
so, experiencing a frisson of pleasure at the feel of her soft skin
against his rougher hand. He told her their address in London and
she promised it would go in the next post. What a lovely letter,
thought Mary to herself, wondering what sort of girl this Agatha
might be. Any young woman would appreciate such a thoughtful
brother.*Days
passed during which his breathing eased considerably and his arm
seemed to hurt less; but Edgar still had no sense of sight and
remained unable even to distinguish even between light and
darkness. Nurse Gosling, who always seemed to be on duty when he
was awake, told him this might simply be the effect of the bandages
and cotton wool padding; blocking out any light and applying
disconcerting pressure to his eyeballs. He thought this was
probably kindness on her part, to prevent him from fretting about
his loss of vision – a generous, if short-sighted, impulse on her
part since he would have to come to terms with it sometime. Yet he
seemed unable to feel frustration with her.Other
than his left arm, Edgar’s limbs all seemed to work normally,
although he was forbidden from rising from the bed to try walking
and was therefore becoming increasingly bored.“Perhaps
I might read to you?” said a much-loved voice, close to his ear, as
he lay wondering how to pass the time. For a moment he thought he
had started to hallucinate.“Agatha,”
he finally stammered, unable to believe his sister was actually
there, at his bedside. “Can it possibly be you?”“It can,
and it is,” she replied. “I have brought Lajita to see you as
well.”“Mrs
Williams would not allow your sister to travel alone to France, so
I accompanied her,” added the old amah’s sing-song voice. “And in
truth, I would not have let her come alone, either.” She is far too
beautiful, with her blond hair, pale complexion and alluring
figure, to be allowed alone near all these men, she might have
added; but didn’t for fear of making the girl conceited. There was
no real danger of the girl developing such emotion; she was aware
men always looked admiringly at her, but vaguely assumed they did
the same to every girl.“What
Lajita means is that she wanted to see you for herself,” added
Agatha, a smile lighting up her voice so much Edgar could almost
see her animated face for himself. She made no reference to his
eyes, although she could see they were closely bound; Nurse Gosling
had told her the position as soon as she had identified
herself. “I have spoken with the doctor and he says we can
take you back to England with us very soon. It’s all agreed. Well,
actually, he was ordered to allow it; apparently Grandmamma has
some very important friends in the General Staff. She is waiting
for us in Folkestone. Who was that rather pretty young nurse who
brought us over?” she added with a pleasing lightness to her voice.
“Was she the one who wrote your letter? She seemed most upset to
learn you were to be moved so soon. What have you promised
her?”“Absolutely
nothing,” he replied to her schoolroom banter; adding with
artificial grandeur, “anyway, I have no idea to whom you are
referring.”“No,”
said Agatha more seriously, her tone dropping as if addressing a
sensitive subject; which she was. “I know you’ve not seen her,
which is unfortunate, because she is really rather your ‘type’,
darling.” It was a risk, talking about his blindness, felt Agatha.
It hurt her even to think about it; but it was a subject which had
to be challenged head on.“I
didn’t know I had a type,” answered Edgar, a slight edge in his
voice blunting the obvious pleasure he felt at having his sister
present. His reaction was not the result of any concern about his
disability, rather that Agatha’s comment about a young woman who
had shown him only kindness seemed unfair; the nurse did not
deserve to become the butt of Agatha’s humour. But he could never
be cross with her for long, he realised as a smile spread across
his face simply because she was his sister – and she was there with
him when he needed her support.“Stop
bickering, children,” cut in the amah’s gentle voice. “If you can’t
play nicely, I will send you to your rooms.” The old injunction
almost brought the three of them to tears at the memory of happier
times; but it also reduced them to helpless, and inappropriately
raucous, laughter at the relief of their reunion, even under these
circumstances.“I met a
rather nice-looking major, as we came in,” said Agatha innocently,
as soon as she was able to speak after the mixed emotions of their
reunion had subsided somewhat. “He seemed to know you, and wanted
to talk, so Lajita and I will go to our hotel to prepare for the
journey home. We leave at nine o’clock in the morning, so don’t be
late! Perhaps I should ask if that young nurse can accompany us
home,” she added over her shoulder, safely retreating out of range
of any fraternal retaliation.

“Lieutenant
Smythe,” said the voice of Major Gauthier, silently approaching his
bedside. “I am glad to see you looking so well, given your
experience. And to meet your sister.”“Thank
you, sir,” replied Edgar. “Sorry I cannot stand up to greet you,
but I’m forbidden any movement for some reason. I can’t even
salute, as I’ve no hat on.” It was not formality that made him
speak thus, but the hope that his words would demonstrate his
wellbeing. The major had, after all, acted sufficiently quickly to
save him from far worse than the injury he had actually suffered.
Recognising the debt which he owed the other officer, Edgar
nevertheless found himself incapable of expressing his thanks.
Perhaps, he later wondered, this was because he could not see the
other major’s face to gauge his reaction.“I
wanted to see you to thank you and your men for their efforts in
the woods, that night,” said the major, unaware of – or perhaps
understanding – Edgar’s dilemma. “We managed to plug the hole
alright, but I am not sure how long it will hold. You had better
not repeat that to anyone, though. I understand you are off to
England tomorrow. I wonder if I might ask you to carry a letter for
me. It is to someone who will be pleased to hear from me. I will
give it to your sister when I see her at the hotel, this
evening.”It did
not occur to Edgar to wonder why the usual post was inadequate for
the major’s purposes – or how the major happened to be seeing
Agatha later on – but he naturally agreed. He had instinctively
liked Gauthier when they had first met. His confident manner had
soothed the young officer in the field and his memory of the
Canadian’s strong, trustworthy face made it easy to see how women
might like him. Should he warn Agatha to be careful? No, not if he
valued his life!“I
should tell you that you have been recommended for a medal as a
result of your actions on the 22nd,” said the Major, cutting across
thoughts he couldn’t possibly divine. “I fully endorsed the award
and hope that it will be some recompense for the injury you have
suffered in the service of your country. You could have held your
men in reserve and nobody would have thought any less of you,” he
added, conveniently forgetting he had given Edgar no such option at
the time.How
could a medal compensate for the loss of one’s eyesight, mused
Edgar as he finally managed to thank his Canadian friend? But
others had lost far more; he should be grateful. And he
was.
*“Nice
evening?” Edgar asked his sister (with a friendly-malicious tone in
his voice) when she and Lajita arrived at half past eight to
prepare him for his journey. It was to be an arduous one, with an
ambulance driven by a woman volunteer taking them to the local
train station, where they would board the slow service to Calais,
before being loaded onto the steamer to Folkestone.“What do
you mean?” she replied, somewhat shame-facedly, glad he could not
see her blushing. “We simply had dinner and retired for the night,”
her memory of the major’s dark brown eyes and sensitive mouth
filling her mind with imaginings she would rather not share, even
with Edgar.“Dinner
with whom?” he asked, affecting an air of innocence which she
didn’t believe.“Well,
if you insist,” she admitted, “it was with Maurice … Major
Gauthier. But don’t worry, Lajita was with us all the time. Mind
you, he is rather attractive.”“Down,
girl,” said her brother. “He is probably married and certainly too
old for you.” Neither of which was true, as far as Agatha was
concerned; she had asked about the addressee on the letter and the
Major had said it was his sister, virtually his sole relation, who
was currently living in Zürich. She hadn’t thought to ask why she
was there, rather than at home in Quebec.As they
prepared Edgar for the journey Agatha spoke of inconsequential
things, trying to keep from their minds the overriding fear that
Edgar’s eyesight might never return. They spoke of holidays shared
on the continent in happier times, visits to their cousins in
Germany – something it was better not to talk about too loudly
these days – as well as family outings with their rather aged
Grandmamma to Brighton, to visit the Pavilion.“Do you
remember the Crystal Palace?” Edgar asked, suddenly. “You were
rather young when Grandmamma took us there – the year the old Queen
died.”“Not
really,” replied Agatha absentmindedly, as she ensured his few
belongings were packed in the bag she had brought with her. “I was
only five and all I really recall is Grandmamma going on all the
time about how it was ‘nothing like as good as it had been at the
Great Exhibition’ when she was fourteen. Didn’t we go to see an art
exhibition, or something? Oh, but I do recall the train journey
there. Lajita was surprised at how fast the engine pulled us along;
much faster than in India, she said.”“I am
still here, you know,” interjected the old amah mildly, her
constant – usually silent – presence something of which the
children were always aware, but occasionally forgot. She was making
sure Edgar’s bandages looked secure. “And it was very fast. Trains
in India move at a more sedate pace, especially in the countryside,
where there are frequently wild animals on the lines. And they
usually had ‘cow-catchers’ on the front. Cows are sacred in Hindu
tradition, because they are a source of food and a symbol of life.
They must never be killed,” she added, in her deliberate, almost
pedantic, way of speaking. They continued to talk about old times
as they prepared for the trip.“I’ll be
changing your eye dressings on the journey,” Agatha told Edgar, as
they finished. “Your little nurse has shown me how to do it without
hurting you and given me all the salves I will need for the next
three or four days. That should easily be enough to cover the
journey.”“She’s
not my little nurse,” said Edgar, rather more sharply than he had
intended. Fortunately, he was unable to see the wicked smile which
spread from his sister’s delicate mouth to her eyes.“Then
why is she standing in the corner crying her eyes out at the
thought of your departure?” she asked with an innocent-sounding
voice. An exaggeration, Edgar assumed.
*Accompanied
by the not-really-crying Nurse Gosling, although she did look to
Agatha to be slightly downcast, Edgar was carefully carried on a
stretcher to the waiting ambulance. He felt he could have walked –
might have preferred to – but was under military orders. Anyway,
Agatha and Lajita were enjoying fussing over him.“Now,
you are sure you know what to do, aren’t you, Miss Smythe?” asked
Mary Gosling. In truth, she became attached to all her charges and
was pleased to see any of them leaving in one piece, especially
those who would not be going to war again. Nevertheless, this one
seemed rather special. Such a pity she would never see him again.
Mother had said there would be times like this, nursing soldiers;
difficult partings. And she should know, mother’s sister had
married a junior officer who had been killed in action during the
Second Anglo-Afghan war. Nurse Gosling was aware that Edgar was a
son of the Raj – had managed to find out that much from talking
with Agatha – and would be unlikely to ally himself with a mere
builder’s daughter. But one might dream.“Thank
you, Mary,” replied Agatha. “We will be perfectly alright. If I
have any problems, Lajita has some nursing experience from her time
in India. She will be able to help me.”“Then I
must wish you goodbye and a safe journey,” came the slightly
wistful response; the only thing Mary Gosling could say, really,
given the catch in her voice which she didn’t want her erstwhile
patient to notice.The
ambulance made the short journey to the railway station in
relatively good time, given the volume of other official traffic
and the troops being marched from one point to another – for
reasons only the generals (presumably) knew. At the station, Edgar
was transferred to the luggage compartment of a train that should
take them directly to Calais.“I still
don’t see why I can’t travel with you in First Class,” complained
Edgar, who was clearly feeling much better, but highly frustrated
with so much inactivity. “If I don’t get up soon, I will lose the
use of my legs, as well as my eyes.”“Please
don’t say that, even in jest,” said Agatha quietly, a chill
piercing her heart at his words. It pained her to see her beloved
brother suffering so. “There are so many men far worse off than
you. You must be positive.”“I am
sorry, darling,” replied Edgar, reaching out for her hand and
finding it instinctively, guided by the position of her voice. He
was mortified that he had hurt his sister with his black humour,
trying to make the best of his circumstances. “I didn’t mean it.
And I really am grateful for you having come out to fetch me back
home. Otherwise, I might have had to rely on Nurse Gosling; and who
knows where that might have led?”“I have
a very good idea,” she said cryptically. “She was pumping me for
information about you, yesterday evening, before I went back to the
hotel.” Leaving Edgar to ponder what the nurse might have wanted to
know – or been told – Agatha asked Lajita to sit with him while she
went to find their seats. The women had agreed to take turns with
him during what promised to be a slow journey northwards and Lajita
had insisted on the first hour; she wanted to talk with her former
charge.“You
must not worry about your sister,” she told him as soon as they
were alone. “She was in no danger from the Major, I watched him
closely. He found her attractive, but had other things on his mind.
I suspect he was worried about his men. He lost very many, as you
must know. He has been writing letters to as many of their families
as he could, and I think he has not yet finished that task. He has
no time for chasing after young women.” Her tone lightened and she
continued: “now, how is your arm? The dressing looks alright, but
if it hurts too much, you are to tell me.”After
chatting about many shared experiences, they settled down to a
companionable silence. The difference in rank had never been an
issue for them. The relationship between amah and charge was as
close as that of nanny and child; it transcended age and status in
a way that few others could. She knew as many of his secrets as his
batman had – probably more. Edgar suddenly realised he had no idea
what had happened to Private Jones, his personal servant. That he
had not been to visit suggested he was either dead or wounded.
Edgar had not thought to ask after him, which now hurt him deeply;
how could he have been so forgetful of the attentive service he had
received from the Welshman ever since joining them? As he drifted
off to sleep, he resolved to write to Major Gauthier and enquire
after him – or get Agatha to do so on his behalf.The
regular clanking of the train’s movement over the rails started to
lull Edgar to sleep. Even the sudden jerks, as they crossed
countless points along the way, had little impact on him. He was
still exhausted by his experiences, but whether these were limited
to the recent action and his injuries, or went deeper to the
pounding he and his men had suffered from German guns for so long,
was uncertain. Whatever the case, the soothing and previously
unforeseen presence of his sister and amah had created a release of
tension in him which drove him to a sleep so deep he failed to
notice any of the stops, changes of attendant, or even his removal
onto the steamer that would take him to Blighty.
*From:
RaptorTo:
German IntelligenceDated:
30-4-15Subject:
CommunicationsMessage:
This is my last message using existing courier – critically injured
in last attack. Will now adopt agreed alternative, which should
prevent my detection by the military authorities.

Chapter 2 – The White CliffsThe
towering chalk faces of the ‘White Cliffs of Dover’, are clearly
visible as vessels approach Folkestone harbour. But not to Edgar;
not on this occasion anyway. He could see nothing at all – unlike
on his previous crossings when returning from the continent. Then,
the sight had always provided a ‘welcome home’; the indication of a
return to normality after the freedom from routine offered by a
holiday. Such trips had usually been with Agatha, but sometimes
with school or university friends instead.Lying in
his cabin for the three-hour crossing – longer than usual as they
navigated the minefield laid to impede German shipping passing
through the straights of Dover – Edgar felt, for the first time,
slightly sea sick. This was, he imagined as he strained to avoid
retching, probably due to his inability to focus on the
horizon.“Don’t
worry, darling,” said his sister, hearing the moan which escaped
his lips and divining its cause. She was standing by the porthole
of their cabin looking out towards the east, where she could see
Dover Harbour, the place they usually landed. “It is just a gentle
swell. It probably feels more to you because you cannot see the
waves to account for the motion. Shall I describe to you what I can
see?”“I don’t
mind rough weather usually,” he replied, abashed at his
unaccustomed reaction to the sea. “But being blind makes the other
senses more acute. I’m sure I can hear the fish laughing together
at humanity’s hubris in thinking it can build anything strong
enough to withstand the strength of the sea. And probably at our
stupidity in fighting wars, too.” He was far from being a pacifist;
one had to do what was necessary to serve one’s country. But
neither was he totally sure he understood the reasons for this
particular war; for the loss of so many lives – and more to follow,
without doubt. “But perhaps all I can hear is the waves lapping
against the side of the ship. Yes, please; tell me what’s out
there,” he added, suppressing his darker thoughts with an
effort.“The
cliffs look rather dirty, now I come to look closely at them,” she
complained. “I suppose the chalk is vaguely ‘white’, sandwiched
between the dingy water and green fields above. But vegetation is
growing down its face giving it a somehow ‘unwashed’ appearance, if
you know what I mean. The sea is a dirty greyish-brown colour; and
although there are patches of blue sky behind us towards France,
the clouds over the sea and Kent make for a dismal scene.” She
paused as the throb of the engine altered slightly. “We are veering
away from Dover now, towards Folkestone. Grandmamma has leased a
house there for us to stay in while you are being treated. I rather
like it, it is not as large as the London house, but the layout is
more convenient. It is almost square, over four floors, rather than
the narrower shape of the Knightsbridge town house. It is near to
the Grand Hotel, on the cliff top; where the late King used to take
that Keppel woman.” “Did
you know she had been his mistress even before he ascended the
throne?” asked Edgar. This sort of topic would normally have been
taboo between a man and young woman of their class, even siblings.
But their relationship was sufficiently close – and Agatha’s
education so liberal – that few subjects could not be
discus